Of Divers Hallowed Things
by LisaT
Summary: How do the girls and staff of Cackle's cope with the aftermath of the events in "Plague"? Could matters deteriorate further? Of course they could... ON HIATUS, NOT ABANDONED - WILL BE UPDATED IN THE FUTURE.


_Here we are again! The prologue of the sequel to_ A Plague on All Their Houses. _I'm sorry it's taken so long to get up, but it was a rather stubborn chapter and I ended up ditching quite a bit. I hope you enjoy…_

_**OF DIVERS HALLOWED THINGS**_

**PROLOGUE**

It was Christmas Day, and peaceful quiet had descended in the staff room. Miss Hardbroom was slowly rocking backwards and forwards in her new stiff-backed rocking chair, her eyes glued to a thick tome on recent advances in cultivating plants for use in potions. Miss Cackle was seated at the big table, a plate of biscuits and gourmet cheeses at her elbow. Her glasses were sliding down her nose as she bent over her book, and now and then she emitted a humming sound of approval. A log fire crackled in the grate, spilling out warmth and light.

On the other side of the fire, opposite Miss Hardbroom, Sybil Hallow was curled into the worn armchair, her head resting on her folded arm as she watched the older women. She had expected that Christmas Day at school would be dull and dreary, and that she would find herself longing for home and family, despite the fact that it had been her decision and hers alone to disavow them some weeks before. Instead, the day had managed to be both restrained and magical. She had been permitted to sleep in – even during holidays, Miss Hardbroom expected to see her for breakfast at eight sharp – and when she'd got bathed and dressed and joined her companions in the staff room, it was to find it transformed. All indications that this was a work room had been removed. Magical decorations sparkled, gleamed and danced from where they were twined around table legs and curtain poles, and the red candles in place of the usual white lent the room a festive air.

And, much to Sybil's surprise, there had been presents. Not the extravagant mixture of magical and mugical items she would have had at home, but simple things that she could use at school. She was genuinely happy to get a book on magical music composition from Miss Hardbroom, a beautiful thing with a crafted leather jacket, and Miss Cackle's gift of chocolate was equally well received. Sybil had only small things for her mistresses: a clay holly brooch for Miss Hardbroom that she had requested Mildred Hubble to make, and for Miss Cackle the book she was reading now, on cheese-based desserts that she'd managed to pick up in a second hand bookshop in the local village on one of their rare forages there.

'Oh, lovely,' Miss Cackle said suddenly, audibly smacking her lips. 'I like that one. I think I'll ask Mrs Tapioca to do that for us for New Year.'

Sybil and Miss Hardbroom exchanged a subtle smirk.

'Which one is it, Miss Cackle?' Sybil asked, pulling her expression straight again. Miss Cackle, she had found, did not mind being teased, but she _did_ object to being laughed at.

'A white chocolate mascarpone cheesecake,' the Headmistress told her dreamily. 'Doesn't it sound divine?'

'It sounds like a recipe for nightmares, if you ask me,' Miss Hardbroom put in, punctuating her comment with a definite rock of her chair. 'I hope you aren't planning to eat it late at night.'

'Oh, don't be such a spoilsport, Constance,' Miss Cackle retorted impatiently. 'I've eaten cheese at night for years and never had any dreams at all, let alone nightmares. And Sybil's young enough for anything, aren't you, dear?'

'Hmmm,' Miss Hardbroom said sceptically, while Sybil wisely said nothing.

That was the other thing that had taken time to adjust to; the bantering that was apparently common coin between the Headmistress and her Deputy. Granted, most of the actual _bantering_ tended to come from Miss Cackle, but when she so desired, Miss Hardbroom could be a deliciously dry 'straight man' and Sybil had found herself choking on her giggles more than once as she listened to their exchanges.

'What time are we having dinner?' Sybil asked, her thoughts turned to food by Miss Cackle's remark.

'At one o'clock,' Miss Hardbroom told her with another rock. 'Why? You can't possibly be hungry after all that – that _stuff_ you inhaled not two hours ago.'

'It's _Christmas__Day_, Miss Hardbroom,' Sybil pleaded, still not quite believing that she was now comfortable enough to wheedle the formidable woman. 'If we can't fill up on empty calories now, when can we?'

'"Empty calories?"' Miss Hardbrookm quoted derisively. 'And what, may I ask, are _those?_'

'It's easy to see you don't read any of the weeklies apart from those dry academic journals you so love,' Miss Cackle answered for Sybil. 'If you'd read _Witch__Weekly_ like the rest of us, you'd know that "empty calorie" food is food with, well…'

'No nutritional value whatsoever!' Miss Hardbroom proclaimed triumphantly. 'And Christmas Day or not, that is no reason to spoil Sybil - _or_ ourselves, Amelia.' She ended with a firm nod, and Sybil and Miss Cackle exchanged a rueful look.

'Never mind, Sybil,' Miss Cackle said in a stage whisper once Miss Hardbroom was once again absorbed in her book, '_I_designed today's menu and not Constance. I think I can promise you it will be absolutely… delicious. And,' she continued, her smile turning wistful, 'we'll be having a _very_ special dessert.'

'Cheesecake?' Sybil offered.

Miss Hardbroom made a sound that might have been considered a laugh from anyone else, but Miss Cackle shook her head.

'No. Rose-syrup pudding, in memory of our dear Davina.'

Sybil blinked away the hot tears that had come to her eyes at the mention of her chanting teacher. She had come to have a genuine affection for both Amelia Cackle and Constance Hardbroom, but if truth were told she sometimes felt like a juicy bone between two extremely determined dogs. Miss Bat's presence, she felt, would have alleviated that somewhat.

'Will we be laying a place for her?' she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.

'Naturally,' Miss Hardbroom responded stiffly. 'It's _traditional_. Miss Bat will be with us in spirit until a full twelvemonth has passed. She might even be with us _literally_ in spirit,' she went on with a glance at the cupboard, once the chanting mistress's favoured refuge. 'I'm sure I heard whimpering noises like those Davina used to make coming from that cupboard last week.'

Amelia beamed. 'Wouldn't that be marvellous?'

'It'd be marvellously inconvenient,' Constance returned sourly. 'We could entice the live Davina out with strawberries and cream from time to time, but what in Merlin's name do you use with a _ghost?_'

Sybil couldn't help it. She started to laugh, but before long the laughter had turned to tears, and Amelia fluttered over to gather her in a warm woollen embrace.

'I know, I know,' she crooned as she rocked Sybil in her arms as if the girl was three instead of nearly thirteen. 'It's always difficult at Christmas, child, always. Our dead may haunt us, but that's no use when you want to see and touch them, is it?'

Sybil felt something brush her cheeks, wiping away her tears, and she sat back, sniffling and blinking. 'I-I'm sorry,' she stammered, taking the monogrammed hankie from the Headmistress and mopping her face thoroughly. 'It was so – so funny, and then s-suddenly it w-wasn't…'

She dropped her head again as several more tears trailed down her cheeks and dripped off her chin. 'A-and then I thought of C-Clarice,' and she put her head on her arms and sobbed for her best friend in good earnest.

'It's nearly time for lunch,' she heard Miss Hardbroom murmur through her fog of misery. 'I'll go on ahead; there's something I need to check.'

The door opened and closed, softly, and Sybil continued to sniffle, her breath hitching, but comforted by the gentle smoothing touch of Miss Cackle's fingers on her hair. The ache of loss was still there, but the tangible reminder that someone was _there_ and _cared_ meant more than Sybil could ever have expressed.

Eventually, she drew a long, wavering breath. 'I'm OK now, Miss Cackle,' she said, trying the mopping-up-thing once again. 'Oh,' she said, rather blankly, as she caught sight of the monogram on the hanky. 'It's Miss Hardbroom's.'

'I always forget to carry mine,' Miss Cackle admitted with a conspiratorial smile. 'And Constance never does… which reminds me, child. If you're living with us you shouldn't have to address us so formally during the holidays, should you? It just doesn't seem terribly _fair_, especially today.'

Sybil's eyes widened and she stopped her futile attempts at smoothing the hanky. 'W-what should I call you?'

'I don't mind being "Aunt Amelia",' the Headmistress told her. 'Constance –'

'Will never allow me to call her _that,_' Sybil added, her tears evaporating at this novel idea. 'She-she'd turn me into a frog, or something.'

"Aunt Amelia" rolled her eyes. 'I think you'll find that's an urban legend. Constance Hardbroom has been here for more than twenty years, and I'm as certain as I can be that she's never turned anyone into anything. Turned them _back_ a few times, admittedly, but usually only because others have done the mischief in the first place!'

Sybil giggled, rather damply, and allowed herself to be chivvied kindly out of the staffroom and along to the Great Hall, which was presently being used as a dining room.

An 'Oh!' burst from her when she saw the table. It was set, not for six, as she had expected, but for seven. 'Are we expecting someone else?'

'Not at all,' Miss Hardbroom told her briskly, guiding her to her seat. 'Have a look at the nameplate – oh, for heaven's _sake,_girl!' as Sybil began to cry, again.

'I-I'm sorry,' she hiccoughed, her fingers tracing the card with the name _Clarice__Crow_ inscribed in Miss Hardbroom's idiosyncratic copperplate. 'I-it was just s-so unexpected. Thanks, Miss Hardbroom.'

'You're welcome,' that lady responded with a touch less rigidity than usual. 'Now where is Miss Cackle - ?'

'Aunt Amelia's gone to the kitchens,' Sybil said boldly, trying the name out on her tongue. It felt … good, and it was even better to see Miss Hardbroom's usual imperturbability drop for a second as her eyes flew wide in surprise. 'She said I could call her that,' the girl added defensively.

'Evidently,' Miss Hardbroom agreed, eyeing her as if she were a newly discovered form of pond life. 'And what, pray, did "Aunt Amelia" say you could call _me?_'

'She said to ask you,' Sybil admitted, quailing somewhat when Miss Hardbroom's eyes narrowed and her lips pursed, emphasising her high cheekbones and making her look more terrifying than ever. 'It's OK, Miss,' she squeaked, 'I honestly don't expect you to –'

'You may call me HB,' that lady announced instead, with the air of one granting a huge favour. 'Oh, don't look so surprised, girl. Do you really think that I am not aware of my nickname?' She wrinkled her nose. 'All things considered, it's … rather inoffensive. _However_,' she continued with a glare, 'if you ever, _ever_address me as anything other than 'Miss Hardbroom' during term time you will find yourself in detention for the rest of your school life. Is that _quite_ clear, Sybil Hallow?'

'Yes, Miss Hardbroom,' Sybil agreed meekly, deciding that perhaps this was not the right moment to make use of the new dispensation.

'Hmmm,' said the Deputy Headmistress. 'Now, _where_ is our dinner?'

'Right here, Constance,' Amelia called cheerily from the door. A series of large bowls and tureens were floating in front of her, and Sybil goggled. Her parents had always preferred Muggle-style service, complete with butlers.

'Amazing,' she breathed as Miss Cackle gave a wave of her hand, and the dishes of food arranged themselves neatly on the table.

'Just a little levitation magic,' the Headmistress told her as she sat down herself. 'Constance, do sit down and stop hovering. Frank and Maria will be along in a moment.'

'Why are they here?' Sybil asked as Miss Hardbroom investigated the contents of the dishes. 'Haven't they got families?'

'Mrs Tapioca has no family in England since her husband died. Mr Blossom's only relatives are Charlie's family, and they're presently disporting themselves _on__skis_,' Miss Hardbroom answered, her lip curling on the last words. 'In any case, there are _always_ repairs for him to complete during the holidays.' She gave Sybil a meaning glance, and the girl sank down in her seat.

'_I_ haven't broken anything,' she said defensively.

'That's true,' Miss Hardbroom conceded. 'Carelessness does not seem to be one of your faults, unlike _others_ I could name. If you girls would only -'

'Have some wine, Constance,' Miss Cackle put in quickly, cutting off the impending lecture. 'Ah, here they are at last. Come and sit down, Frank, Maria, and let us start.'

**xxx**

After the last bite of Christmas pudding was eaten, Sybil sat back with a groan. 'That – that was gorgeous, but I'm absolutely stuffed. Thanks, Mrs Tapioca.'

The little Italian woman beamed. '_Grazie_, _bambino,__grazie_. I am very pleased you like-a my food, _si_. It was a pleasure to cook such nice-a food, Miss-a Cackle.'

'And it was a pleasure to eat it!' Amelia Cackle responded with a beam of her own. 'You've excelled yourself this time, Maria.'

Miss Hardbroom looked down her nose at the cook. 'It was very satisfactory, Mrs Tapioca,' she said stiffly. 'Most enjoyable.' She lifted her glass in acknowledgement, and Mrs Tapioca looked so overcome that Sybil quite thought the little woman was going to burst into tears and flee the room.

'There, there, Maria love,' Frank said, patting her arm. 'All that worryin' was for naught, weren't it? Told you they'd all be 'appy, with that load o' grub.'

'It was fantastic,' Sybil agreed, causing the cook's tears to overflow.

As Mrs Tapioca sniffled happily into her sleeve, and Mr Blossom looked absurdly proud of all the praise being bestowed on her, Sybil wondered if there was anything going on between them. Firmly, she put the thought out of her mind. It was just … _ewww_.

'Have you 'ad a good Christmas, Sybil?' Mr Blossom asked, once Mrs Tapioca had recovered herself. 'It must've bin different from what you're used to, you bein' a Hallow an' all.'

'I've had a lovely day,' Sybil assured him, for he was looking rather anxious on her behalf. 'Honestly.'

'That's grand, ain't it? And didja get presents?'

Sybil nodded, and the kindly caretaker grinned. 'Well, there's more to come, lovey. I'll just go an' get your gift from us, Maria an' me. It's in the kitchen, still.'

Before Sybil had time to do anything more than blink, he had left his seat and the room, moving more quickly than she had ever given him credit for.

'He's so-a proud of this, _carina_,' Mrs Tapioca told her. 'He's been working on it for weeks, now, ever since – ever since – ' She dabbed at her eyes, and Sybil looked down.

_It__'__s __Christmas_, she told herself sternly. _No __more __howling_.

Frank returned more quickly that anyone had expected, and he was not alone.

'Look!' he said, striding into the great hall, his hand clamped firmly around the scruff of a tabby cat's neck. 'That cat o' Mildred Hubble's must've decided she didn't like being on holidays. She just showed up, scratchin' my front door!' He gave the tabby a slight shake and a glare, and Sybil could have sworn the tabby glared back.

She looked at the cat more closely, noting the sleek fur and the distinctive square markings around its eyes. 'I don't think that's Millie's Tabby, Mr Blossom,' she began doubtfully. 'This cat is –'

'Altogether a more elegant creature,' Miss Hardbroom finished for her, rising from her seat and circling the table to stand in front of the caretaker. 'Put her down, Mr Blossom – _gently_, please.'

Looking as bewildered as Sybil felt, Mr Blossom obeyed. Almost as soon as the cat's grey paws touched the wooden floorboards, the cat seemed to shimmer and grow upwards, and Mr Blossom jumped back with an exclamation.

For the cat had disappeared and in its place was a tall woman in green robes, with square spectacles that matched the markings around the cat's eyes.

'Errrp,' said Frank, his eyes popping.

'Poor Frank,' said Mrs Tapioca pitifully, ignoring the cat-turned-woman. 'Have some _vino_, Franco.'

'Welcome, Minerva,' Amelia said expansively, waving her wine glass so that the liquid sloshed over the top. 'How lovely to see you! Constance didn't tell me she'd invited you for dinner, but –'

'I didn't,' Constance herself interjected at this point, as Mrs Tapioca ushered a still-gawping Frank back into his seat and plied him with alcohol. 'However, it _is_ good to see you, Minerva.'

Professor McGonagall inclined her head. 'Thank you, Constance, Amelia. I apologise for foisting myself on you in this manner, but it was necessary.'

Amelia's smile faded. 'So this isn't just a Christmas visit.'

'I'm afraid not,' Minerva McGonagall confirmed, taking a hastily but perfectly conjured seat next to Constance, and glancing at Sybil in some surprise. 'I wasn't aware that Cackle's permits girls to remain at school during the holidays.'

'We don't usually,' Miss Cackle told her. 'Sybil's situation is special.'

'I see.'

Sybil squirmed in her seat as the older witch examined her with a penetrating gaze, and her chin came up.

'I'm here because I've – I've divorced my family,' she said in a rush. 'I don't like what they're turning into.'

'Ah, yes.' McGonagall's gaze became thoughtful. 'You are a Hallow, are you not? I believe I encountered your father with your sister this morning at the Ministry. Ethel, is it?'

'Ethel is the elder Hallow girl, and Mona – who is still too young for Cackle's – the younger,' Miss Hardbroom said smoothly. 'Ethel left us at the end of last term in – er – rather suspicious circumstances.'

'You mean she allowed herself to be dragged off by Death Eaters,' Sybil exploded, weeks of pent-up fury finally finding a vent. 'After disobeying Miss Cackle's orders and telling Dad about the illness and that brought Hecketty Broomhead on top of us – they're thick as thieves, those two, and Dad doesn't like how Miss Cackle runs the school.'

Professor McGonagall eyed Sybil over the top of her glasses, her lips pursed thin in an expression that was all too familiar to the girl. 'I'm glad you mentioned Mistress Broomhead, Miss Hallow. She is one of the reasons I am here.'

Miss Hardbroom slumped in her chair, and Miss Cackle choked on her wine. Mrs Tapioca started to wail, it was Frank's turn to act as consoler, ushering her out of the great hall so that the witches were alone.

'Is she coming back?' Sybil asked tentatively when her mistresses remained silent.

'Not _yet_,' Professor McGongall responded with meaning. She sighed, looking across the table at Amelia. 'I am not sure if you are aware that the Ministry is increasingly under Voldemort's control? The control is not yet explicit, but it is only a matter of time.'

'_What?_ But we've – we've –' Amelia stuttered, her wine-flushed complexion paling.

'Miss Cackle means that we have transferred the school from the authority of the Witches' Teaching Council to the Ministry's educational department,' Miss Hardbroom explained calmly, although Sybil could see the fine line of worry that was deepening between her teacher's brows. 'Our Fourth and Fifth years are now doing Ordinary Wizarding Levels instead of the WHC.'

'That is a pity,' McGonagall said slowly. 'Although, as it turns out, it may not matter greatly in the long run. Hecketty Broomhead has been promoted; she's now in charge of inspections for schools under both authorities. And, as you know, she has a … grudge … against Cackle's.'

'Is that why you came to see us today?' Constance asked bleakly.

'Partly. I was … _requested_' – the word throbbed with distaste – 'to attend a Christmas brunch at the Ministry this morning. These affairs have never been enjoyable, but of late they have become a test of endurance. While I was there, I was told by an acquaintance of Broomhead's promotion. I was also told that Broomhead has placed Cackle's in Special Measures –'

'Why doesn't she just close us down?' Amelia asked in despair, falling back in her seat.

'She's realised that closing us down would put us beyond her power,' Constance answered tiredly. 'Why would she do that?'

'Then I'll close the school,' Amelia stated. 'I won't let my pupils or my staff be victimised by that – that _woman_ again.'

'I'm afraid that won't be an option,' Professor McGonagall told her, her Scots burr becoming more evident as her tone gentled. 'After what happened last month you are now well and truly on He Who Must Not Be Named's radar. If you scatter the school, he may decide to pick you off one by one … or worse. Haven't you heard that many of Pentangle's girls have been forced into marriages with He Who Must Not Be Named's supporters? Some of those girls were barely fifteen.'

'Dear Merlin.' Amelia looked sick. 'Deirdre didn't tell us _that_.'

'We didn't have much time to speak with her,' Miss Hardbroom reminded her. 'We were embroiled in our own struggles almost as soon as she arrived, and when it was over, she went home.'

Sybil stayed very still and quiet. If she so much as twitched, she would remind the older women of her presence, and after hearing this much, the last thing she wanted was to be sent off to solitary ignorance.

'So what do you advise?' Constance asked, turning to McGonagall, her voice a little _too_ brisk and businesslike to be altogether convincing.

Hogwarts' Deputy Headmistress looked unutterably weary. 'There is little you can do, I'm afraid. Cackle's is being put into Special Measures, as I said. That means that you two will effectively be displaced.'

She paused, and the tense quiet was so profound that Sybil could hear the tick-tock of the big grandfather clock, the sound chiming with her pulse. When McGonagall spoke again, it was almost a relief.

'Broomhead has ordered that Dolores Umbridge should come here as Deputy Head. I know she is not Broomhead, Constance, but I assure you that she is very nearly as bad.' McGonagall's lips thinned before she delivered the final blow: 'And Amelia will be deposed in favour of her sister Agatha for the foreseeable future.'

Sybil gulped, her eyes going to the faces of Miss Cackle and Miss Hardbroom. The latter was graven, her features carved of stone, and Miss Cackle was whiter than Sybil had ever seen her.

She shivered as premonition traced a icy line down her spine. This term would be more terrible than the last, she knew it.

**xxx**

_Do not despair, HP haters! Umbridge is indeed an HP character, but by and large she's not hugely significant across the seven books. HP lovers may have some idea of what's coming, but that's not a huge advantage, for Cackle's is not Hogwarts… _

_And, as always, review! :)_


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